Snowblind
by Lilec Hamira Amdciez
Summary: A collection of Lyserg-centric almost-drabbles. Multi-genre.
1. Submission

**(1) Submission: The act of submitting; the act of yielding to power or authority; surrender of the person and power to the control or government of another; obedience; compliance - 1913 Webster**

He hated all of it. He hated when Marco hit him and told him to get a grip. He hated the suffocating ship. He hated the white uniform he donned in their precence that made him fell filthy and disgusting inside. He hated the iron grip of their devotion, the accusing look in their eyes when he said he didn't think he could do what they wanted him to do. He hated that he was so weak, that he honestly couldn't do anything as good as the rest of them. He hated having to fight the first people who were willing to be his companions.  
But he bore with it. Why? Because they would help him achieve his goal – they would help him destroy the man who had made him an orphan, who had snuffed out the lives of his parents with acrid smoke.

They would help him kill Hao.


	2. Accessory

**(2) Accessory: That which belongs to something else deemed the principal; something additional and subordinate - 1913 Webster**

One of the many things he'd been questioned about since the day he started doing it was why he wore his coat. It was heavy, unnecessary, tacky, and _very_ Sherlock Holmesey. There was really no point in wearing such a heavy piece of fabric, they pointed out, and sometimes he thought so too.

It was really more of an accessory than anything. Just a little quirk that could always be associated with him, something to claim as his own. Like Yoh's headphones or Ren's balloon pants. He never actually said this, though. He'd always just smile and shrug and tell whoever was asking that it didn't really matter.


	3. Excuses

When Amidamaru knocked on his window and told him to go to the beech because Yoh _really_ needed to talk to him about something _important_, Lyserg was shocked. He'd thought that after everything, Yoh would never want to speak to him again. In fact, he would have been surprised if _none_ of them wanted anything to do with him ever again. So he grabbed at this chance and, not even bothering to put on his shoes, he bolted right out, giddy with excitement.

He hadn't expected anyone to be up at this hour and was surprised when he ran into Meene. He hadn't bothered thinking of plausible excuses to give if this happened, so when she asked him where he was going, he said the first thing that came to mind:

"Dropped my shoes out the window."


	4. Perfection

He once asked Marco why their uniforms were white – out of innocent curiosity, he assured – and he had said something about purity and perfection.

Later, in his own quarters, Lyserg pondered the irony of this. They were, after all, an organization whose sole purpose was to kill someone. There was nothing pure in wanting and striving for the death of a person, no matter how sick, twisted and evil that person was. They were far from pure.

And, in all honesty, Lyserg Diethel did not believe in perfection. It simply did not exist. And if it did, why for them?


	5. Vision

He should have seen it from the start. Really, he should have. But his mind was already so clouded that he didn't. A bunch of mysterious white-clad people who said they would help him achieve his dream seemed like a god-sent gift. The only blessing he'd gotten since he fire. One small mercy for a boy upon whom the universe bestowed none. They had even given him Zelel.

Apparently they only needed him to be able to enter the entire team in the Tournament. He was just a little puppet who would do their bidding.

As he walked down the paths of Mu, he hoped he'd failed whatever vision they'd had for him.

* * *

As you can tell, I have very little love for the X-Laws.


	6. Apology

He had to be timid. Tentative. As if a child reporting for punishment.

"Lyserg?"

_"What?"_ Lyserg demanded, not even looking up from the book in his hands.

Hao frowned. He honestly didn't see the point of this. But it was in his bargain with his brother: Either he apologized to Lyserg or he was on the streets.

"_What,_ Hao?" snapped the boy, clearly annoyed by the interruption.

The shaman sighed and, suddenly finding the Brit's shoes absolutely fascinating, he said, "Sorry."

Said Brit's eyes widened for a moment before growing smaller under his now-furrowed brow.

"What for?"

Hao shifted uncomfortably.

"Everything."

"All right."


	7. Beginnings

**Author's Note:** So I haven't updated in forever. Hrm. I've been busy with life, you see. But here it is, another little Lyserg-centric almost-drabble. Sorry it took so long to get out.

* * *

A childhood pastime with candy at the end.

When Lyserg Diethel thought about the very beginning of his training as a dowser, that was the only memory he could catch hold of. Dowsing, for him, was something that was always as easy as walking. It wasn't as easy as breathing, which one did without thought, but not as hard as playing soccer, which needed one-hundred percent of his concentration. It was something learned and hard to forget.

If his vague memories were correct, he learned dowsing in the form of a game, a 'use the materials provided to find the object' kind of game similar to his 'Find It' book, except he was given rewards for winning at this 'game'. It's stupid, he remembers his much younger self thinking, to be getting prizes for finding in a Find It game.


End file.
